"Jack Vance - The Moon Moth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vance Jack)

nothing like this; he felt neither inclination nor competence in the matter of dealing with dangerous assassins.
Thoughtfully he rubbed the fuzzy gray cheek of his mask. The situation was not completely dark; Esteban Rolver,
Director of the Space-port, would doubtless cooperate, and perhaps furnish a platoon of slaves.
More hopefully, Thissell reread the message, January 10, Universal Time. He consulted a conversion calendar.
Today, 40th in the Season of Bitter Nectar - Thissell ran his finger down the column, stopped. January 10. Today.
A distant rumble caught his attention. Dropping from the mist came a dull shape: the lighter returning from
contact with the Carina Cruzeiro.
Thissell once more reread the note, raised his head, and stu-died the descending lighter. Aboard would be Haxo
Ang-mark. In five minutes he would emerge upon the soil of Sirene. Landing formalities would detain him possibly
twenty minutes. The landing field lay a mile and a half dis-tant, joined to Fan by a winding path through the hills.
Thissell turned to the slave. "When did this message arrive?"
The slave leaned forward uncomprehendingly. Thissell reiterated his question, singing to the clack of the
hymerkin: "This message: you have enjoyed the honor of its custody how long?"
The slave sang: "Long days have I waited on the wharf, retreating only to the raft at the onset of dusk. Now my
vigil is rewarded; I behold Ser Thissell."
Thissell turned away, walked furiously up the dock. Inef-fective, inefficient Sirenese! Why had they not
delivered the message to his houseboat? Twenty-five minutes- twenty-two now. . . .
At the esplanade Thissell stopped, looked right, then left, hoping for a miracle: some sort of air-transport to wisk
him to the spaceport, where, with Rolver's aid, Haxo Angmark might still be detained. Or better yet, a second message
can-celing the first. Something, anything. . . . But air-cars were not to be found on Sirene, and no second message
appeared.
Across the esplanade rose a meager row of permanent structures, built of stone and iron and so proof against
the efforts of the Night-men. A hostler occupied one of these structures, and as Thissell watched a man in a splendid
pearl and silver mask emerged riding one of the lizardlike mounts of Sirene.
Thissell sprang forward. There was still time; with luck he might yet intercept Haxo Angmark. He hurried across
the esplanade.
Before the line of stalls stood the hostler, inspecting his stock with solicitude, occasionally burnishing a scale or
whisking away an insect. There were five of the beasts in prime condition, each as tall as a man's shoulder, with
mas-sive legs, thick bodies, heavy wedge-shaped heads. From their fore-fangs, which had been artificially lengthened
and curved into near circles, gold rings depended; the scales of each had been stained in diaper-pattern; purple and
green, orange and black, red and blue, brown and pink, yellow and silver.
Thissell came to a breathless halt in front of the hoslter. He reached for his kiv*, then hesitated. Could this be
con-sidered a casual personal encounter? The zachinko perhaps? But the statement of his needs hardly seemed to
demand the formal approach. Better the kiv after all. He struck a chord, but by error found himself stroking the ganga.
Beneath his mask Thissell grinned apologetically; his relationship with this hostler was by no means on an intimate
basis. He hoped that the hostler was of sanguine disposition, and in any event the urgency of the occasion allowed no
time to select an exactly appropriate instrument. He struck a second chord, and, playing as well as agitation,
breathlessness and lack of skill allowed, sang out a request: "Ser Hostler, I have immediate need of a swift mount.
Allow me to select from your herd."
The hostler wore a mask of considerable complexity which Thissell could not identify: a construction of
var-nished brown cloth, pleated gray leather and, high on the forehead, two large green and scarlet globes, minutely
seg-mented like insect-eyes. He inspected Thissell a long mo-ment, then, rather ostentatiously selecting his stimic,**
executed a brilliant progression of trills and rounds, of an import Thissell failed to grasp. The hostler sang, "Ser Moon
Moth, I fear that my steeds are unsuitable to a person of your distinction."
Thissell earnestly twanged at the ganga. "By no means; they all seem adequate. I am in great haste and will
gladly accept any of the group."
The hostler played a brittle cascading crescendo. "Ser Moon Moth," he sang, "the steeds are ill and dirty. I am
flattered that you consider them adequate to your use. I cannot accept the merit you offer me. And"тАФhere, switch-ing
instruments, he struck a cool tinkle from his krodatch тАа тАФ"somehow I fail to recognize the boon companion and
co-craftsman who accosts me so familiarly with his ganga."